


Vagrants

by yumi_michiyo



Series: The Nighthawks [2]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Explicit Language, F/F, POV First Person, Post-Relationship, animals change everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumi_michiyo/pseuds/yumi_michiyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anna reflects. First-person POV. Set after the events of <em>The Nighthawks</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vagrants

I think I should stop drinking.

Or did I think that the last beer? Or the one before?

Drinking does things to your memory, as Elsa –

– no. Bad Anna. You started drinking to forget. If you’re gonna forget just one thing tonight, it had better be that.

Everything reminds me of her. Even drinking – but that’s okay, because things get fuzzy after a few beers and there’s the pleasant buzz of my happy place, and I’m as horny as fuck.

The last bit swirls in the can when I move my hand, and it reminds me I’ve yet to finish this _last drink_. Bottoms up.

Back to what I was saying – once I remember whatever it was.

It’s Friday night, and not so long ago all of those were jealously saved up and spent at her place or mine, doing all sorts of random things, whatever we felt like doing. God, those feel like forever ago. We’d start out with small things; watching movies, cooking dinner, and I’d get all these crazy ideas, and Elsa’d shoot me down.

Sometimes she actually went along with them, and those were the good times, the golden memories that don’t hurt like every other thing connected to Elsa does.

It dawns upon me that I’ve been sipping air from a long-empty can. Fuck. I grab a fresh icy-cold one and crack it open. The beer tastes terrible, but I don’t care. I don’t drink proper mixed drinks anymore; I like to think of cheap shitty beer as my own personal martyrdom to our relationship.

Our relationship, or what was left of it after Elsa had her meltdown. A massive fight, some time to cool off (ie. get hopelessly drunk and bitter on my part), and some heartfelt conversation. And just like that, we were okay.

Looking back, it was kind of incredible we called ourselves ‘a thing’ as long as we – _I_ – did. No matter how smitten I was with Elsa at the time, I realize now that there were cracks in whatever we had going on, that would never be resolved. It was like there was this open wound that scabbed over, but never fully healed; it would just quietly fester until it burst open one day –

– I should halt that train of thought right there. I was never really good at metaphors, anyway.

Elsa was – still is, I think – the wit out of the both of us. She has this amazing wry sense of humour; she makes these subtle jokes and you don’t realize that she’s made them until you think about it for a minute. Sometimes she says something funny without meaning to, and she gives me this adorable confused expression when I laugh. I’ve never seen it anywhere else; it’s something that’s uniquely Elsa.

Fuck, I’m pathetic. It’s been more than a year since I saw her at that coffeeshop that we used to go – and now I can’t anymore because the fucking smell of mocha reminds me of her – and I’m clearly not over her. Us.

I haven’t even been able to see Kristoff either. Apparently I tried to jump his bones when he came to my place to check on me. Fuck. I can’t string together a sentence or construct a passable metaphor to save my life, but I have no problem attempting to shag every living thing I come across.

It’s a good thing I’m currently married to my job, because #1: I got a promotion, and with the fancier business cards comes fewer people breathing down my neck, and #2: I can afford the gallons of alcohol that I burn through weekly. Which is saying a lot, since I buy nothing but the cheap stuff.

Hindsight is not only 20/20, it’s also this cruel sonuvabitch that rails at you for making poor life choices. You really shouldn’t have had that last tequila, you should have shut up when your girlfriend’s yelling at you, you really, _really_ shouldn’t have let your job take over your life.

And the worst thing is that it’s right.

… I need another drink.

* * *

 

Generally, after work, I head straight home – stopping by a few bars on the way. And if I’m sufficiently plastered (no more Long Islands for me; it takes a little longer to get plastered, but I don’t care), I go to the North Mountain and stand outside. To the local homeless men, I’m the crazy chick who hasn’t got enough guts to walk in, and bolts when she catches a glimpse of the bartender.

Today was supposed to be the same old, same old. I weaved along the pavement and took up my usual patch of sidewalk just behind the entrance when a sound from my ankles pulls me out of my reverie.

A kitten. It’s all white – well, it would be, if it wasn’t filthy with goodness only knows what.

I ignore it in favour of my self-imposed misery.

The kitten mews again and starts rubbing up against my shins. “Damn it!” I curse, trying to shake it off without having to actually touch it again; there’s a smudge on my new boots which I’m hoping didn’t come from where I’m guessing it did. “Shoo! Scat! I haven’t got anything worth eating!”

It drapes itself on my feet and _purrs_. For crying out loud. “Stop doing whatever it is you’re doing,” I hiss, “and go away.”

Despite everything, I still crouch down to take a closer look. For something so small, it sure can purr. The sensation’s almost… _nice_.

“I’m trying to be really bitter here, and you’re not helping,” I tell the kitten solemnly, but I can feel my mouth twitching.

It – he? – opens his eyes, and they’re the purest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.

Well. On an animal, that is. It threatens to break what bits of heart I have left. Tears prick at my eyes.

“I can’t.”

Even as I rub at my eyes, I’m aware of how painfully pathetic I’m being; it’s a _kitten_ , for God’s sake. A kitten with Elsa’s eyes. And here I am blubbering over my heartache and pain and the entire gamut of feelings that have me reaching for the bottle night after night.

He mews again and a furry nose butts my free hand. The kitten’s blue eyes are shimmering when I look at him again – like the ocean, like Elsa’s eyes did when she was happy – and I force a smile.

“You must be hungry. What say we go get you something to eat, hmm?” I scoop him up, and little claws grip my sleeve. “Maybe some milk. Or one of those tins that’re always being advertised on the television.”

The kitten answers with a tiny pink yawn.

* * *

 

The next morning, I’ve got a hangover as usual, but what’s not so usual are the cans and bottles of booze in the garbage, a year’s supply of cat food in the cupboards, and the fuzzy white ball of fluff asleep on my bed (where he made a beeline for, and point-blank refused the old towel in the corner. Jerk).

Sobriety hits like a cold wet slap to the face, but this time, I don’t think of it as a lull in between drinks. It’s been a while since I’ve needed to be there for someone – or was just needed – and that warms me like a six-pack never did.

Coffee. Maybe some coffee will help with the headache. Some mocha. Yeah, a hot mocha with extra whipped cream from the old place would really hit the spot.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, “if you’re awake by the time I get back, you can share my whipped cream. Sound good?”

I’m talking to a cat, a cat that isn’t even awake, and my hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, my heart's still mostly broken, and I couldn’t care less.


End file.
